The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 16

16

C harity stirred her porridge as she listened to Grace’s animated prattle about Northbourne Seminary for Young Ladies. “‘Midwinter recess’ they’re calling it, though if you ask me, the instructors needed an excuse to break from the winter doldrums. Winter days are ever so short and dreary.”

“And cold,” Mama agreed, buttering a slice of toast.

After savoring her last honey-sweetened bite, Charity placed her spoon alongside the saucer. “At least it is warmer here than at Stack Castle. It is ever so drafty, sitting on the northeastern-most point of Great Britain.”

“You are not wrong, my dearest. Heaven forbid I ever have to winter there again.” Mama nibbled her toast. “Mind you, after I married your father because of his duties in the House of Lords, we nearly always spent the worst of the winter in London, sometimes Newhailes near Edinburgh, but rarely in that frigid old fortress.”

“Do you think Julia will fare well there during her confinement?” asked Grace.

“She seems to love the castle, oddly enough,” Mama replied. “Just yesterday, I received a letter from Martin about how he’d taken his wife on a sleigh ride and she didn’t want it to end. Imagine a sleigh ride in her delicate condition!”

“I think venturing outside is good for the soul, if one is dressed warmly enough.” Charity imagined her sister-in-law bundled from head to toe. “I’m certain Marty would have dressed her in a fur cloak and placed a hot brick at her feet.”

“Isna that romantic, Mama?” asked Grace, evidently not as enthusiastic about losing her Scottish accent as she had been when she’d first begun her studies, having announced that she wanted to sound as English as their mother.

“Romance?” Mama daintily dabbed her lips. “Your brother is a duke. He hasn’t time for romance.”

Holding in a laugh, Charity’s apple juice burned the back of her nose. Good heavens, if Mama thought her eldest son was impervious to romance, she must have been blind when he and Julia were sneaking about Huntly Manor, stealing kisses everywhere, including the China closet, and even outdoors behind the woodshed. Before she made a spectacle of herself, Charity swallowed her juice and dabbed her eyes.

“Speaking of Julia…” Now composed, she was determined to say what needed to be said, lest she lose her opportunity. “I’ve written to her about the new Earl of Brixham. Ye ken he has a right to go into Huntly Manor and remove every last piece of furniture, every portrait, every candlestick and the like.”

Mama sat back to allow Tearlach to remove her empty bowl and plate. “True, but where would the chap put it all? His Lordship lives above a butcher’s shop, does he not?”

“He does, but there’s nothing stopping him from holding an auction and selling Julia’s family heirlooms. You said yourself the lass is in no state to travel, not to mention Marty needs to be with her . My brother hasna time to worry about a small holding in the south of England.” Charity reached for a slice of bacon, though it wasn’t anywhere near as tasty as Harry’s. “After we take Grace back to Northbourne, I think we ought to make a slight detour to Brixham.” Of course, she wouldn’t be going to the manor to see Harry. She would be making the trip to ensure all was well with the people who lived under Huntly’s roof. If she happened to cross paths with the new earl in the process, then she might have an opportunity to discuss the contents of the house and anything else that might arise…

Like kissing?

She cringed. Harry Mansfield most likely would never want to kiss her again. After all, he’d stayed away an entire fortnight, ending their liaisons well before Marty threatened to shoot the poor man.

Most definitely not kissing.

“ We ?” Mama coughed out with incredulity. “I will be traveling with Grace and you will remain here with Andrew. Besides, wherever did you come up with the notion that traveling from the Cotswolds to Brixham was a slight detour? That leg alone would most likely be at least a three-day carriage ride—and then three more days to return to London. Honestly, dear, I care not if I never again set foot in that crumbling old house.”

“It might be old but it certainly is not crumbling. And do not forget that Julia wanted Huntly Manor to be used as a refuge for ladies who, due to no fault of their own, have fallen on difficult circumstances. We cannot simply sit idle while the household effects are sold out from under our boarders, not to mention our devoted servants.”

“Good heavens, what the new Earl of Brixham does or does not do with the furniture is none of our concern. Our attention, and yours especially, is with the Season and remaining in London to make the most of it. Besides, Martin has a new steward. I’m sure the man will handle all transactions for Huntly as amicably as he would any of our family’s holdings.”

Charity wanted to scream. Must her every idea be thwarted? “But what about the here and now? What about the ladies who have put their trust in us…in me ? What do I tell them? To chain their beds to the floorboards?”

“Of course not, dear.” Mama pushed her chair away from the table. “Why do you not write to Mrs. Fletcher and Willaby and tell them that all furnishings presently used by those living in the manor are to remain, and if the new earl wishes to remove anything he must first notify His Grace, who will tell his steward to make arrangements to procure replacements and so forth. In the meantime, I’ll write to Martin and let him know what we’ve discussed, and you will not give the manor another thought. After all, dear, the modiste will be here shortly for your fitting.”

“Ahhhh,” Grace sighed, fluttering her golden, adolescent eyelashes. “Ball gowns, court gowns, and the like. Only two years and I will be out, Sister. I am counting on you to make a fabulous match to pave the way for my first Season.”

“Heaven forbid I do anything to endanger your prospects.” Charity glared at the haughty chit. “I’ll wager you’re earning top marks at Northbourne on how to behave like a princess, but I daresay you could use some serious tutelage in humility, benevolence, and modesty.”

“How can you say that? I’m modest.”

Charity gripped her chair’s armrests and glared across the table. “So says the lass who less than a year ago told me you felt you should be out, and I should be an old maid.”

Grace sniffed behind her glass of apple juice, but Charity had far more on her mind than an imperious sister. Blast, blast, and double blast—her plan had been foiled. And she’d thought it such a good solution—take Grace to Northbourne and detour to Huntly to ensure the new earl hadn’t barged through the door like an angry bull and made any overreaching demands. Not that she thought Harry would turn into an overbearing brute. Surely he wouldn’t turn the lassies out of their beds.

Would he?

After Martin had been such an ogre, she couldn’t be certain.

At his first opportunity, Harry walked to Bond Street, where he stood looking up at the sign for Jackson’s Saloon. Ever since he’d started boxing he’d heard tales about Gentleman Jackson, the great champion who now made a fortune training members of the ton . After all the country matches he’d fought in warehouses, barns, and old sheds, it was difficult to believe he now faced the door of the most renowned boxer in the kingdom.

“Brixham?” someone asked from behind.

Harry paid the fellow no mind for a moment, until he realized the man was addressing him. He quickly turned and recognized the chap. “My lord, how long have you been standing there?”

“Just arrived. Your rank precedes mine, there’s no need to be formal. I merely have a courtesy title.” Lord Andrew MacGalloway gestured to the footman dressed in red livery and standing beside the saloon’s door. “Come for a lesson from the champion, have you?”

“Come to see if I can arrange a fight is more apt.”

“You?” His Lordship asked, his tone rather condescending.

Harry strode toward the door, opened immediately by the footman most likely for Andrew who was far better dressed. “I’ve won many a fight in and about the southeast of England. Why not me?”

“Because you’re a bloody earl.”

“I’m a bloody poor earl.”

Inside it was a boxer’s heaven. Sure, there was a bar with a few tables at the back, but most of the space was filled with everything a man needed to work on his craft—barbells of all sizes on one side of the room, ropes and suspended bars for strengthening. In the center of the floor were three boxing rings—two smaller flanking a large ring atop a platform.

Harry marched directly to the large ring and crossed his arms, watching the two men sparring with a critical eye—a larger, obviously skilled man who looked as if he were swatting away flies, and a little fellow who hopped about like a nervous finch. “The pair aren’t very well matched.”

“’Tis a lesson, not a fight,” Andrew whispered.

Harry had already deduced that, because the contenders were wearing gloves. “Hands up! Guard your head—block first, then strike!”

“Break,” said the big fellow before he turned to Harry. “May I help you, sir?”

Harry looked across the saloon, filled with men sparring and exercising with weights and whatnot. “Would you be able to tell me where I can find Mr. Jackson?”

“That would be easy,” said Andrew. “You are speaking to the champion himself.”

Harry’s mouth fell open for a moment. “Excuse me, sir.”

“And you are?” asked Mr. Jackson.

“Harold Mansfield, the Earl of Brixham.” Andrew puffed out his chest, taking it upon himself to make the introduction. “And former boxer.”

“Is that so?” asked the champion.

Harry shot Andrew a sidewise glare—one he hoped told the pup to keep his gob shut. “His Lordship is a bit too hasty to tack on the former . I’m here to see if you might be willing to set me up with a fight.”

“A peer?” Mr. Jackson scratched his chin—one with a shadow of stubble not unlike Harry’s coarse whiskers. “Step into a boxing ring with a scrapper? You’ll be crucified.”

“You wouldn’t have said that a few weeks ago.”

The big man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the ropes. “Why?”

“Because at that time I had no idea that I was an earl. You most likely haven’t heard of me, but I’ve faced many a pugilist, the last two being Dudley the Destroyer and Alanzo the Terrible.”

“You fought Alanzo? The man’s a cheat—threw him out of London myself. Boxing hasn’t many rules, but that scoundrel cannot manage to follow a one.”

“True, and I heartily agree. He was disqualified when I faced him.”

“’Tis a wonder you’re still breathing.” Mr. Jackson beckoned him. “So, you reckon you want a fight?”

“I need the coin.”

“Everyone needs coin. I’ll decide if I want to take the risk.” The champion put his large-booted foot on the lower rope and raised the upper. “Step into the ring and let us see what you’re made of, my lord.”